


get there when we get there

by lepidopteran



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Road Trip, Canon Disabled Character, Dissociation, F/F, F/M, Hitchhiking, M/M, Multi, Occult, Partial amnesia, Semi-Epistolary, Slow Burn, Trans Edward Elric, Trauma!, a delightful ensemble cast, but this is ed POV so it will be predominantly edling and edwin, magical realism ish, my plan is that none of the relationships will be given more weight than the others
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-12-19
Packaged: 2019-06-04 20:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15154772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lepidopteran/pseuds/lepidopteran
Summary: Middle America, as experienced by a delinquent orphan with uncanny occult talents, and the dissociative brother, unlicensed prosthetist, runaway trust fund kid, and various other hooligans who love him.Featuring entries from the Super Secret Travel Diary of Edward Elric.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Head down for Kansas, we will get there when we get there, don't you worry  
> Feel bad about the things we do along the way, but not really that bad  
> We inhale the frozen air  
> Lord send me a mechanic, if I'm not beyond repair  
> \- The Mountain Goats, Psalms 40:2

On the shoulder of the Interstate 80, the fumes of passing cars smell like tarweed and the tarweed smells like motor oil. Ed doesn’t know what he smells like. Alphonse smells like sweat, so he probably does too.

“Hey, Al. How do I smell?”

His brother shades his eyes to look down from his towering height, a good foot taller than Ed. It’s not that Ed is short -- Al is just fucking gigantic. Fifteen years old and a solid six-something.

“We’ve been on the side of the highway all day, and you’re worried about how you smell?”

Ed scuffs the toe of his boot on the gravel. “Nah, just curious. Anyway, we’re on the side of the highway most days.”

“But we missed morning commuter hours, thanks to you.” It’s a pretty unnecessary comment. Kinda rude, if you think about it.

“Look,” Ed says. “I was up late, ok?”

“Writing in your secret diary,” Al says. Totally unnecessary.

Ed gives him the finger, but Al’s not looking. His gaze is turned toward the horizon line, sun glinting off the tacky dollar store shades he somehow hasn’t lost or broken (while Ed burns through two pairs a month). So Ed can’t see his brother’s eyes, can’t look for the vacant and shuttered look they get sometimes. But he can tell from the gentle droop of Al’s mouth that he’s _elsewhere_ , in that place he goes where Ed can’t follow.

He throws his rucksack on the ground and sits heavily on it. It’s a ragged military-issue thing he found in Pinako’s attic. There’s an iron-on Rancid patch slapped over the vile insignia of American imperialism, and a few smears of red and black paint that don’t read to the layman’s eye as sigils.

“It won’t be long.”

He isn’t sure, himself, what he means. Not long until one of the passing cars stops for a couple of dirty, sketchy looking kids? Until they reach Resembool? Until their journey is over, for good? 

Not long until Al gets his memories back?

It’s a good thing Al isn’t listening, because Ed can’t substantiate that claim.

*

**23 AUGUST**

**Hiked 15 miles today. 2 or 3 hours outside Sacto found another snake skin. real small like from a baby. I don’t know what kind, don’t know the snakes out here**

**Al said not to take it cuz “it’s dirty” but I did duh. Might come in handy**

**You know what’s really dirty? this guy !**

**Haven’t washed my binder in like. Fuck. A couple weeks. Not since the humboldt campsite. yeah I’m disgusting ! ! !**

**SO IN CASE I FORGET:** **  
** **I pressed the snake skin in** **_The Twelve Keys_ ** **at the chapter heading for the 9th key.**

**might have to drop a couple books soon cuz my bag’s getting heavy ( sux ! ! ! ) but I know I’m holding onto that one so it’s a safe place**

**Al says “ go to sleep ! ” but I can hear coyotes and it’s wiggin me out dude ! ! !**

**got 25 bux at an antiques place for the ring we “found” and I KNOW it’s worth more cuz you better believe I know my rocks, gems, metals and minerals but hey. Beggars can’t be choosers nor can literal thieves !**

**ACCOUNTS:**

**$ 46**

  * ****25****



**$ 71**

  * ****9 ( food today + yesterday )****



**$ 62**

**How long til Resembool? At the rate we’re going, two weeks? Is that too optimistic**

**Well fuck. It better not be. I don’t even need to do the math to know that**

*

The sun is hanging low and the sky is a hazy red by the time a car pulls over, kicking up dust.

Al wastes no time in leaning down to the open window and chatting up the driver, while Ed hangs back and assesses the situation.

It’s not a ride Ed would take, under typical circumstances. The navy blue sedan is small enough that Al will have to slouch and pull up his knees. Moreover, they’ll be alone with the driver. Who is a man. Ed has an abiding suspicion of adult men. Blame his father.

Ed tucks his hands behind his back and fidgets with the catch of the switchblade at his right wrist. But he sidles a little closer to size the guy up. He’s pretty clean-cut, which only makes Ed more suspicious, because guys in suits aren’t usually the type to pick up unaccompanied minors on the side of the road. Ed feels safe around country people and road people, not sleazy city slickers out in the boonies with unknown motives.

But the man isn’t rich, judging by the beat-up car. And he’s not all that slick, messy black hair hanging down over the dark sunglasses that take up the better part of his face. All that shows is a sharp jaw and a half-smile.

Ed dislikes him on instinct, but he doesn’t seem dangerous. At least, not dangerous enough to justify turning down a ride. It’s far worse to stay out here past nightfall.

“Western Nebraska, to see our folks,” Al is saying, in that charming Midwestern country-boy voice of his, exaggerated just a little for the stranger’s benefit. It’s the kind of voice you can say ‘folks’ in without sounding like a total asshole.

“The prairies,” the guy says. Yeah, he’s gonna be a pain in the ass. “Whereabouts? I know the area.”

“Oh yeah? We’re from Resembool.”

“You don’t say.”

“Not far off the highway, straight shot from here.”

“Yeah, straight shot across four state lines. Listen, kid --”

He can’t get the admonition out, though, before a blink of blue and red lights turns all three of their heads. Ed’s stomach drops.

“Okay, pile in,” the man says.

Now, _that’s_ a little suspicious, but now is not the time to protest. Al takes shotgun, and Ed throws in his rucksack into the backseat before scrambling over to the far side. It’s his preferred spot in any car, just the position to give his right hand easy access to the driver’s jugular. Should the need arise.

The stranger pulls out just a little too fast, and Ed says, “You on the run or something?”

He makes a dismissive noise, eyes fixed on the rear-view mirror. “Hardly. But you kids don’t look too keen to meet a police officer any time soon.”

“How very generous of you,” Ed says, more than a little sarcastic, and Al shoots him a look. But honestly, this guy is growing on him.

He’s tight-lipped when he says, “They’re pulling me over. Let me do the talking -- I mean it.”

He steps out of the car to speak to the cop privately, and Ed cranes his neck to look out the rear window. He hears, “They’re with me, officer,” and then --

The guy flashes a badge. _Shit._

Ed whips his head around and grabs Al’s shoulder. “We gotta get out of here. This jackass is a cop.”

“So we bail now, and _those_ cops pick us up?” Al says. “Just sit tight and wait it out. When he stops for gas, we can run for it.”

Ed sinks back in his seat and folds his arms, but he can’t argue. Still, he doesn’t have nearly enough self-restraint not to say, “So you’re with the feds, huh,” the minute the motherfucker slides back into the car.

Judging by how fast the highway patrol cleared out after he flashed that badge, he must have pulled rank.

There’s that stupid smirk again. “Relax.”

He doesn’t elaborate, and Ed doesn’t relax.

They drive on in tense silence for uncounted miles. The sky darkens, and as the highway starts to wind, the driver turns on his brights. But he keeps his shades on. It’s downright creepy. Al rests his chin on his hand and his elbow on his knee, totally spaced out again. Ed passes the time calculating the degree of the angle at the bend in his brother’s cramped legs. Forty-eight, maybe fifty degrees.

Then the driver sighs, takes off his sunglasses, and tucks them into that stupid little pocket on the inside of his sun visor panel. And he meets Ed’s eyes in the rearview mirror. And Ed _yells_.

Al startles at the noise, and Ed snaps his jaw closed, his instincts swinging between two extremes. Throw open the door and roll out onto the highway, because _what the fuck._ Or stick with this guy as long as he possibly can, come hell or high water, because he can’t remember the last time they came across a familiar face.

“Damn, you’ve got a voice on you.”

“Ed, what’s going on?” Al’s eyes are wide. Ed reaches for his shoulder again, this time to offer reassurance, but Al shrugs him off. Gives him that look that’s his own special way of saying _what the hell, man._

“Why don’t you explain,” Ed says, turning his most vicious stare on the man with his eyes currently fixed on the road, hands on the wheel at 10 and 2. Calm as you please.

“It’s been a long time,” he says. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember, Alphonse.”

Yeah, there’s a whole lot of things Al doesn’t remember.

Ed remembers clear as day. That’s his curse. But he’s not one to show his hand, so he says, “What’s your name again? Colt? Ray Colt?”

Another irritating half-smile. “Yeah. Roy Mustang.”

“He came to Resembool,” Ed says, and Al’s eyebrows shoot way up. “After -- right about when I got out of the hospital. Hung around Pinako’s place for a while, asked her a bunch of questions. There was this woman with him, too. Blonde lady. Winry followed her around like a shadow."

“Cards on the table,” Mustang says. “I’ve been looking for you kids for a long time. Who knew it would be this easy.”

“That’s totally creepy,” Al says.

Mustang doesn’t say anything in his defense. He just pulls out his badge, in its leather trifold, and tosses it into Al’s hands.

Ed leans in to look. There’s the shiny insignia, and the ID card: Special Agent Roy Mustang. Then Al flicks open the final fold, and Ed sucks in a quick breath.

There’s a sigil, clear as day, traced and re-traced in ballpoint pen with pressure so hard the lines are indented. A flame, a salamander, and a pattern of triangles, set in a double circle.

Al meets Ed’s eyes, look questioning, and Ed works to decipher the sharp rush of feeling that hit him when his eyes first fell on the symbol. He knows that Al has one question alone, a question that could best be summed up as: _good witch or bad witch?_

Here’s the weird thing: beyond a shadow of a doubt, when that sigil was first charged, it was with nothing but malice. But when Ed stares hard at it, he can see the re-tracings separate into distinct strata, stretching back over what must be years, and each one feels entirely different from the last. The most recent is so strong that in the back of his head, Ed hears it crackling. When he focuses, he can feel its heat on his face. It’s not friendly, but it’s not threatening. It feels protective.

It feels, weirdly, like it’s protective of him. And yeah, that’s creepy. Totally creepy. But here’s the thing: it’s protecting Al too. So he won’t fight it.

He gives Al a quick sharp nod, and watches the wrinkle between his pale brows smooth out.

If Mustang notices their wordless exchange, he doesn’t show it. He just holds out his hand, palm up, and when Al returns the trifold he slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket. His dark, unsmiling eyes never leave the road.

*

**24 AUGUST**

**HELP I’M TRAPPED IN A TOYOTA SEDAN WITH A BORING OLD GUY WHO KNOWS EVERYTHING ABOUT MY LIFE**

*

“Yo, Mustang. Where the hell are we?”

Ed definitely did not fall asleep. He doesn’t fall asleep in cars with strangers. Maybe he dozed a little. But then again, maybe Mustang isn’t such a stranger.

“What does it look like?” He pulls into the parking lot. “A motel.”

It’s a prototypical desert way-station. Half-lit neon sign, stucco walls, yellowish lights beyond yellowish curtains in the few rooms that are occupied. The works.

“Yeah, but _where._ ”

“Just this side of the Nevada border,” Mustang says. “We’re not tackling that ‘til I get some shut-eye.”

“What makes you think we’re sticking with you?” Ed says. Al is already clambering out, unfolding his mile-long legs, rolling his shoulders. He gives an enormous yawn. Ed stifles his own.

“I don’t.” Mustang tugs his key out of the ignition with one of those too-smooth gestures that look practiced, the way a middle school geek practices talking to girls. He’s probably done that, too. “You can leave anytime you want. But I’m offering you a good night’s sleep on my dime, and breakfast in the morning. And after that, I’ll see what I can do to get you on your way to Resembool.”

“What’s in it for you?” Ed takes care to look straight into Mustang’s eyes, but the better part of his attention is on Al, who’s stretching like an ‘80s housewife in a calisthenics class. Still, Ed knows he’s listening.

“Nothing,” Mustang says. “Because whether you stay or go, you and I are having a long talk. Now.”

So Mustang wants intel. Fair enough. That’s his profession. But Ed can’t help but feel like this is all more personal than your average everyday FBI operation.

“So talk.”

Mustang rolls down the window. “Hey, kid,” he calls out, and produces a wad of cash from the same pocket his badge disappeared into. He presses it into Al’s hand. “Book us two rooms.”

Ed whistles. “This guy’s loaded.”

Al just shrugs and takes the money, but he gives Mustang a little salute before he turns away. Once Al’s bulky figure recedes into the flickering light of the motel lobby, Mustang rolls the window up.

“You already know what happened that night.” Ed slouches down in the backseat. It’s an awkward arrangement for a heavy conversation -- Mustang doesn’t even turn around, just stares at a point beyond the windshield. “If there’s anything Pinako didn’t tell you, I sure as hell won’t tell you either.”

“Oh, I don’t care about that.” Mustang impatiently waves a hand, as if to dismiss the most traumatic experience of Ed’s young life. “I want to know what you’re doing now.”

Ed examines the fingernails on his left hand. “We’re heading back to Resembool, like Al said.”

“Sure. And you left because…?” Mustang trails off, glancing over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, terribly smug.

“I already got my GED, if that’s what you’re getting at, and Al’s taking the test as soon as he turns sixteen. Look, Pinako’s our legal guardian, it’s all above board, and she said --”

“Save it,” Mustang says, holding up a hand. “I couldn’t care less about your education or your supervision. All I’m saying is that it takes a lot of nerve to hitchhike across the country with a Flamel cross on your back. Are you looking for trouble?”

Ed kicks his feet up, resting the heels of his boots against the gear stick. “I’m not scared.”

“Yeah, I can see why not.” In the distance Al’s figure is visible beyond a smudged window, leaning across a desk, no doubt making pleasant small talk with the clerk. They watch for a moment in silence. Then Mustang elaborates, “I can tell that you know what you’re doing. But you can’t do it alone.”

Without missing a beat, Ed says, “I’m not alone.” But he can see what Mustang is getting at, so he adds, “What are you offering?”

“Nothing for free. What do you need?”

He almost asks for a car, but that’s too easy. It’s becoming increasingly clear that Mustang is a priceless asset. “We need information. Access to rare documents and classified research. And,” he hurriedly adds, “I want legal protection for both of us. Guaranteed.”

“Sure,” Mustang says, too easily.

“That’s it? No bargaining down?”

“You’re worth the price you’ve set.”

Yeah, still creepy. “So what do you want from me?” Al is loping across the parking lot now, although he takes his time, pausing for a moment to look up at the numerous stars. Ed won’t hide anything from his brother, but somehow he feels like he has to make this deal before Al can talk him out of it.

“You’ll work for me,” Mustang says. “You’ll have free reign to travel around, pursue your research, do whatever it is you need to do. But if I call, you come running. Got it?”

“You gonna pay me a salary? Cover travel expenses? Maybe kick some health insurance my way?”

Mustang scoffs. “I don’t have the funding for that. Maybe I’ll buy you a couple Greyhound tickets. When I send you on a job, we’ll talk compensation. The resources I can offer you access to should make for an even trade.”

Ed is certain beyond doubt that he’s waded into dangerous waters. But the ferocious energy of Mustang’s sigil is sharp in his memory, and that’s enough to make his decision. He spits on his left palm. “Deal.”

To his credit, Mustang takes his hand, although he keeps his driving gloves on.

“Go take a shower. You reek.”

*

Ed is scrubbing his binder in the bathroom sink, with tiny complementary soap bars that claim to smell like “Beach Mist,” by the time he realizes:

The last time Mustang saw him, Ed had a wheelchair and an entirely different name. Not once did he comment on it tonight.

Huh.

He hangs the binder, which amounts to a stained elastic rag, over the towel bar and resolves to consider this point at a later time.

Alphonse is tucked under a threadbare chintz coverlet, reading a paperback. Most likely fiction, and therefore of no interest to Ed, who flings himself onto the other bed. Without looking up, Al says, “So you’re working for the feds now?”

Ed freezes, midway through rearranging the pillows into a nest. Nothing gets past this kid. “Just Mustang.”

Al hums thoughtfully, turning a page. He’ll probably be up all night reading. For someone who claims to live for food and sleep, he can run on very little. “You’re saying he’s some kind of double agent?”

“Not exactly. But he’s got his own agenda for sure.”

“And you think that agenda is compatible with our principles?” He says ‘our principles,’ but he’s the one with the unimpeachable morals. Ed just does his best not to debase them.

Ed stares up at the crappy painting of a sailboat on the opposite wall. Al always asks the right questions, and the answers never come easy. Finally he says, “You saw that sigil.”

Al looks at him across the dimly-lit space between their beds. His eyes are gentle but alert, present. “Yeah.”

Ed falls asleep to the rustle of turning pages.

*

**25 AUGUST**

**Went as far as Reno with R.M.**

**Now writing from an Omaha-bound Greyhound, tickets courtesy of same.**

**Al is finally asleep.**

**R.M. gave me a spare binder before he dropped us off. Super weird and kind of disgusting but he promised it was washed so. He was just like “ you wear a medium ? ” and then threw it in my face pretty much**

**I had no clue but it makes sense right ? he has that vibe older trans men always do. Like kinda badass but also totally embarrassing and corny**

**Obviously he wants me in his debt but for whatever reason I think he also wants me to have more than one binder ?**

**ANYHOW**

**setting aside that awkwardness things are looking up for the Elric bros ! !**

**we’ll be stuck on this bus for about a day and a half, but we’re saving cash and it’ll take us as far as North Platte**

**from there we can find a payphone to call Winry for a ride. She’s gonna be so pissed that we didn’t call sooner**

**I can’t wait to see her pissed off face**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many chapters to come. i have the next few written and will post them as i edit them. after that i'll update as often as my schedule allows, which will probably be fairly frequently since this has become my go-to productive procrastination from irl writing deadlines
> 
> this chapter is the most you'll ever see of roy mustang, whose presence is a necessary evil for Plot. he's a creep and a jerk but we can trust him


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter may contain very small homages to ariana grande and gregg araki

It’s past noon by the time the bus pulls into its next station, in the silent town of Youswell, Nevada. The station is actually nothing more than a parking lot adjoining a low building with red vinyl siding. The door is propped open, suggesting an absence of air conditioning. Across the street is a Chevron station, the oasis of its mini-mart enticing. To Ed’s great relief, the driver announces that they’ll stop thirty minutes here for lunch.

Ed nudges Al, passed out against his shoulder. “We’re at a pit stop.”

Al grumbles, almost unintelligibly, “Gonna keep napping.”

“If you don’t stretch your legs now, you’ll be sorry. Up with you.” Ed gives him a good shove.

The sun is baking hot. Ed considers stripping out of his coat, but he’s not keen on answering questions about his arm at the moment. While Al does graceful lunges, Ed hustles into the mini-mart, which thankfully boasts what is likely the only air conditioner in town.

He grabs a Rockstar for himself and, with great reluctance, a half-pint milk carton for Al. Next it’s time to buy out the stock in the snack aisle: with their travel time so reduced, they’re left with a budget surplus that he intends to put to good use.

Five minutes later he throws an armful of colorful packages down on the counter: corn nuts, jerky, sour gummies, Fig Newtons (Al again), Bugles _and_ Funyuns, and best of all: two King Cones from the ice cream cooler, condensation beading on their plastic wrappings.

The cashier is about his own age, with greasy black hair held off their equally greasy forehead by a bandana. They must’ve ordered that sleeveless turtleneck crop top off the internet, because there’s sure as hell no American Apparel within a hundred miles of here.

They give the haul of snacks a disinterested glance and punch a number into the register without a second look. “$16.66.”

As smoothly as he can, Ed adds, “Can I get a lighter too? Uh, the one with the skulls?”

“ID, please.” A withering look, but not up to par with Ed’s own impenetrable carapace of contempt.

“You’re kidding me.”

“State law requires an ID for the sale of all tobacco paraphernalia,” the cashier says. They kinda seem to be enjoying this.

“Look.” Ed leans in, catching an odor like summer in the Everglades -- humid swampwater and cool crocodile skin. “How do you even know I’m gonna smoke? What if I’m just planning an arson?”

Their lips twitch -- in irritation or admiration, he can’t tell. He gets the feeling that both look about the same on that face. But they scoot the lighter across the counter. “That’s $20.07.”

Twenty and seven: Judgement and the Chariot. “Fair enough.” He counts out the change in pennies, while the cashier lazily bags his purchases.

They present the receipt with a flick of their bone-white wrist. There’s something scribbled on the back; probably a phone number. Ugh.

“You superstitious or something?”

Ed just puts on a pleasant smile and scoops up his spoils in both arms.

But before the door can close behind him: “You should be, around here.”

Ed’s steps stutter for just a second before he collects his wits and exits with as much composure as he can manage. But by the time he reaches Al, sitting against the wall on the shady side of the reddish building, he feels a creeping nausea that never bodes well.

“What’s wrong?”

Ed drops two of the bags into his brother’s arms. “We gotta get out of here.”

Al checks his watch. “Five minutes.”

“Thank fuck.”

Once they’re settled back into the blue-carpeted bus seats with their King Cones dripping on their hands, Al asks, “How much did all this cost?”

“We can afford it,” Ed says, but tugs the receipt out of his back pocket.

Al un-crumples it, and squeaks.

“Oh, right. I think the cashier wanted to bang.”

“I don’t think so, brother.” Al passes back the slip of paper, reverse side up. Those scribbles are not a phone number.

Two interlocked triangles, encircled by an ouroboros. Ed drops it like it’s on fire.

Fire. That’s it. He scrambles out of his seat and off the bus, Al trailing two steps behind him. The driver snaps something he doesn’t hear, already down on his knees with the hot asphalt stinging through the holes in his jeans, King Cone abandoned and melting fast on the pavement. 

He hears Al’s voice, like an alarm bell with its high pitch and warning tone. But too late: in his trembling hands the skull-motif lighter meets the edge of the receipt, and the sigil is swallowed in flames.

“Brother, _no._ ”

Yeah. Too late.

*

**25 AUGUST**

**(LATER, POST FUCK-UP)**

**Teacher would kill me if she saw what happened. I’ll admit I fucked up, ok? Bad. I did the worst thing I could do in this situation. That’s a fact.**

**But do I really deserve** **_this ? ? ?_ **

**More importantly, does Al deserve to suffer, once again, because his brother is a dumbass ?**

**These are the questions that define the life of me, Edward Elric.  
**

*

By the time Ed gathers his senses from where they shattered against the pavement, the bus is pulling away with a screech.

He scrambles to his feet in time to run after it, shouting, waving his arms, cursing and threatening the driver and every passenger. Behind him, Al just stands there, his burly body subtly turned in on itself. His voice is also smaller than usual when he says, “Brother," again, and then Ed's name.

"I know. Fuck. We're fucked."

Fire, in Ed's world, is more creative than it is destructive. It's an energy, a power. Setting something on fire doesn't get rid of it. Just makes it more real.

They learned that when they burned down their childhood home; tried to burn down their childhood with it.

There's one thing that will help them now, and that's getting the hell out of this town, as far away from the creepy cashier as possible. Above all, far away from the cinders of the sigil.

But the bus left them in the dust, and Ed blew half their money on snacks.

He wants to throw a tantrum, wants to punch the asphalt as hard as he can. The only thing that stops him is the tough decision between busting up his prosthetic or his knuckle bones. Both options sound great right now.

He's thinking it might be nice to go ahead and slam _both_ fists into the ground, when Al takes hold of his elbow in one big, gentle hand. "We still have the transfer tickets."

"The transfer is in Utah, Al. Howd’ya plan on getting there? You wanna walk?"

"We'll hitch," Al says decisively, as if he doesn't mind yet another day baking in the hot sun until a car deigns to stop for them. "I bet a lot of trucks gas up here."

Ed shrugs. Truckers are pretty cool. They usually have good stories and good dogs.

There's just one problem. "What if that creep murders us first?"

"We don't know what that sigil does." But Ed doesn't miss the tremor in Al's voice.

"I sure as hell know it's not good. Face it, we're not safe here."

Believe it or not, he's downplaying the situation for Al's sake. If that sigil were meant to kill them, they'd be dead already. If it were meant to incapacitate them, its caster would have taken advantage by now. That fucker has something much more sinister in mind.  
  
The one saving grace is that Ed’s bag was over his shoulder when he jumped off the bus. Without its contents, they would be defenseless.

Al scans the horizon as if he'll suddenly find their salvation in the empty, endless desert that surrounds this tiny island of civilization. A hostile civilization, based on their sole encounter with a local.

But then he points, and Ed squints against the sun, and suddenly he sees what didn't seem to be there before -- a wooden sign in the distance, swinging from rusted chains.

HOT SOUP  
PHONE  
ROOMS

"Hot soup phone rooms?"

"I think it's a hotel," Al says.

"Huh."

A building appearing where they saw nothing before, offering safety and nourishment, can mean nothing good. But there's the glare, and the dust in the air, and Ed sees no other options, so he sighs and shoulders his bag and says, "Promise to blame me if this goes to shit."

*

**26 AUGUST**

**Turns out Youswell is a mining town. Gold apparently. What I hear is the industry hasn’t been doing so hot lately. I wouldn’t be so surprised if that had something to do with my new friend at the mini-mart.**

**Because I am the world’s biggest dumbass, I bent the truth and said I’m with the government in hopes of getting us a free room and meal at the B &B. No dice. **

**In the ever-wise words of Alphonse: It’s a working class rural town for heaven’s sake brother, of course they hate the government ! Have you forgotten your roots and heritage ! ! Are you not a hick !**

**Anyways I** **_love_ ** **to sleep out under the stars and live on corn nuts so no biggie**

**(fuck this place)  
**

***  
**

Ed wakes at dawn with a cool mist of dew on his cheeks, and wanders out into the sagebrush to take a piss. The rising sun casts a pinkish glow on the Shoshone Range in the near distance, and among the grasses he spots a camel spider stretching her elegant, sand-pale legs.

It doesn’t take long to find a broad, flat stone to perch on. He tucks his feet under his ass, well out of the way of snakes and scorpions, and balances his notebook on knees. Knowing Al, it’s a solid hour before he’ll wake and another hour for breakfast before they can hit the road. But Ed is grateful for the time to sit and scribble while the sun creeps higher, heating the sand around him.

Coding his alchemical notes into his travel diary, while also keeping a more-or-less honest record of events, is a puzzle he always enjoys. When Al finds him, he’s working out a sketch of the mountains on a scrap of graph paper, carefully mapping a pattern of shadows and clouds to correspond to the negative space of the glyph he burned yesterday.

Al fills two gallon jugs of water in the bed-and-breakfast’s kitchen before they set out. The proprietors seem to have taken a special liking to him, the way just about everybody takes a liking to Al.

Al idly swings one jug in each hand, their weight of no consequence to him, while Ed trudges along behind him. He can’t help but wince a little at the ache where his prosthetic leg meets his thigh. He’s in dire need of a tune-up. Thinking of the promise of Winry’s magic touch at the end of the journey, the pain lessens just a little. The weight of his bag on his shoulder seems to lighten.

Only nine hundred miles to Resembool.

The most likely place to find a ride would be the gas station, but they have good reason to steer well clear of it, walking in a wide arc through the outskirts of town and finally setting up on the shoulder of the highway about half a mile down. Ed parks his butt on his rucksack, settling in for what’s likely to be a painfully long and boring wait.

Whenever they hear the rumble of an engine, Al sticks out a thumb, and car after car sweeps past without a second glance. The sky is a cloudless daydream blue, and by noon the space between Ed’s binder and his chest is a swamp of sweat.

He’s soaking a bandana in a capful of precious water, swiping it across his face and neck, when Al tugs him to his feet. “Brother, look.”

Ed looks. Away down the road, just on the horizon, the silhouette of a big-ass semi truck forms. Its image wavers in the heat haze. There’s nothing special about it, except that it’s slowing down.

“Prob’ly gassing up.”

But the truck moves on past the turn-off for the cursed Chevron, still creeping along. Right away, Al moves to stick out his thumb, but Ed catches his wrist in warning. “There’s something weird about this.”

Seeing as it’s moving at about a tenth of the speed limit, it’s a good opportunity to admire what’s really a wonder of a vehicle. It’s a powder blue eighteen-wheeler, strangely bright even in the perpetual cloud of dust. The chrome hubcaps, bumper, and fuel tank are polished to a gleam and flash silver in the sun. Somebody cares about this truck.

“You want to be here all day?” Al says, and he sticks out his thumb. But Ed has a feeling the truck would stop anyway.

It pulls up on the broad shoulder just ahead of them. Ed’s heart stutters.

There are sigils marked in bright white on the mud flaps. Because of course there are.

 _Good witch or bad witch?_ _  
_

Ed squints. A triangle in double concentric circles -- mercury, venus, and venus inverted -- a few disjointed Hebrew characters -- an equilateral cross. The more Ed looks at it, the more it seems to glow. Or actually, sparkle? The gritty sand kicked up around the wheels suddenly looks like glitter in the air.

“Good, actually. It’s good.” Ed clasps Al’s hand, still hovering in mid-air. He lets the sigil’s overwhelming benevolence wash over him. “Holy shit.”

The man stepping out of the cockpit is unbelievably tall, which somewhat dampens Ed’s fondness for him, which was admittedly based solely on his beautiful truck and its beautiful sigils. He’s also undeniably a beautiful man -- though not remotely attractive, which is a totally different thing -- with a huge blonde mustache waxed to a shine.

He’s sparkling too, when his voice booms, “You must be the Elric boys!”

God damn it. This is the part where Ed would normally either turn tail and run or start throwing punches, but the sigil still gives him pause. Could it be a kind of camouflage, like the mimicry predatory animals use to deceive their prey? It’s not impossible that another alchemist painted the sigils and this man took control of them. To pull it off, he would have to possess both an inconceivable psychic resilience and a complete lack of moral fiber.

But no. Ed’s gut tells him beyond a shadow of a doubt that this man and his sigil are a matched pair, connected at the very root. He still doesn’t much like the idea that he and Al are being followed, but he’ll stick around to find out why.

He exchanges a quick glance with his brother, whose pale eyebrows are so high it’s almost comical, before he says, “And what about it?”

“A friend of mine said I would find you here.” The trucker produces a crumpled slip of paper from the pocket of his pressed blue jeans and unfurls it with great ceremony.

Ed’s first thought when he recognizes the sigil is, _Mustang has friends?_

Al, God bless him, has the presence of mind to ask the obvious question: “How the heck did he know that?”

“Well, he thought you’d make it a fair bit farther than this. But he had a feeling you boys would get into a spot of trouble somewhere along the line. That’s why they sent me. Alex Louis Armstrong.” He says the name like he’s announcing a wrestling match, but without the promise of spectacular violence.

The man extends a hand that outsizes even Al’s. When Ed shakes it, his own hand feels like a tiny baby bird cradled in its nest. It’s not pleasant.

“I’m headed your way. I can take you as far as Salt Lake City. Agent Mustang tells me you can board a transfer there.”

“That’s right, sir.” Al’s turning on the country boy charm again, but with no ulterior motive this time. Ed can see that his brother is endeared to Armstrong already.

Once Al sets his mind on making someone his friend, there’s no hope of dissuading him. Ed rolls his eyes, but he hoists his rucksack again and says, “Enough chit-chat. Let’s get a move on.”

***  
**

**27 AUGUST**

**Initial Reflections on A.L.A.**

**Questions:**

****1\. How in fuck did he grow that mustache ? Where’s it all coming from ?  
** **  2. **Perhaps more importantly,** **_why ?  
_** **3\. Where did he meet R.M. ? What would possess a long-haul trucker to befriend a god damn FBI agent ?**  
**4\. For that matter, why is a (clearly) super ultra mega powerful alchemist working as a long-haul trucker ?**

**Comments:**

****1\. This truck is fucking tight as hell though  
**  2. Also I’m really grateful and stuff even though he’s annoying as shit**

**Concerns:**

****1\. Does he know about what went down at the mini-mart ? Does R.M. ?** **

    **1a. If yes, are they gonna do something to stop it ?** **  
** **1b. If no, are they in danger ?  
**  
**2\. Regarding 1b, why do I give a damn ??**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmm. Plot. and also, cameos
> 
> this version of youswell is identical in every detail (minus the evil homunculus manning the mini-mart register) to a real mining town in nevada but i didn't want its poor residents to see this fan fiction when they try to google their tiny hometown and so ... it's youswell. 
> 
> but there's no coal mining in nevada, and i only tell the truth in my fan fictions, so it's a gold mining town instead


	3. Chapter 3

The cab of Armstrong’s truck is almost as swank as the exterior. Behind the two cushy front seats is a sleeper with a remarkably spacious bunk, wide enough for Al to comfortably fit on if he curls up his knees. It would have to be—Armstrong is a pretty big guy himself.

He’s one of those grown-ups who really makes Ed feel _small,_ not through cruelty but through an excess of compassion. Armstrong treats the two of them like kids, and Ed is torn between feeling grateful and pissed off. Grateful because Al is almost never treated like the kid he is; pissed off because everyone already talks down to Ed. Figuratively and literally.

But listening to Al gently snoring on the bunk behind him, it’s hard to feel resentment toward Armstrong. That doesn’t mean he likes the guy, though. Something about him makes Ed feel awkward, out of place. Like he’s meant to be behaving in a way he can’t. He feels an overwhelming pressure to make small talk, which has never been one of his strengths.

The atmosphere reminds him of the long year after the accident, when neighbors and old friends of the family would come around to pay a visit to the poor crippled Elric child. Winry would always bring out tea and then hover at the edge of the room until Ed sent her a pleading glance. Then she would pull up a chair and jump in with a funny story about Den or the workshop’s latest eccentric customer, and the guests would turn all their attention to her, leaving Ed blissfully forgotten. Because Winry was always such a pretty and polite girl, open and friendly, the perfect daughter.

Everything Ed never was, and never wanted to be.

But here in Armstrong’s eighteen-wheeler, rumbling down the I-80 at precisely 5 mph below the speed limit, there’s no Winry to cover for him.

“So!” Armstrong booms. He doesn’t seem to know how to just talk. He only booms. “Are you in high school, young man?”

“Got my GRE.”

“I see, very good. College applications must be on your horizon, I assume.”

Seriously, who the hell talks like this? Ed allows himself a long sigh, blowing a loose strand of hair off his face. “Not really a priority right now.”

“I must object! The pursuit of learning is always a priority. Why, in the Armstrong family, a postgraduate education is simply the expectation. Surely there must be studies you’re interested in pursuing. The performing arts, perhaps?”

Is he saying Ed’s a drama queen? Well, takes one to know one. Ed fidgets with the edge of his glove. He hasn’t exactly had time to think about his future. Hell, who knows if he’ll even have one? But there’s a more pressing question on his mind. “You’re saying you have a PhD?”

“A juris doctorate, as it happens,” Armstrong says. “International human rights law.”

“Huh. Whaddya know. And you’re working as a long-haul trucker because…?”

It’s most definitely a rude question, but under the circumstances, how could he _not_ ask? And Armstrong appears untroubled. Actually, it looks like it would take a lot more than bad manners to trouble this guy.

“It’s a most noble profession,” Armstrong says. Ed’s gotta agree on that one. Better than law, that’s for sure. “And it happens to be a tradition in the Armstrong family, going back generations.”

Ed can sense that there’s a bigger story behind all this, but he can also sense that it’s none of his damn business, so he leaves it alone. “Cool. Maybe I’ll be a trucker.”

“College first, young man,” Armstrong says. “For that matter, you never answered my question. Don’t think you can get out that easily! Everyone has goals, dreams.”

Sheesh, it looks like he’s getting a little misty-eyed. Ed huffs to express his deep distaste for this topic of conversation, but he says, “I’m pretty into chemistry. I guess.”

“A fine and admirable field!” Armstrong booms with delight, positively sparkling with enthusiasm. He launches into a string of questions, and Ed finds that it’s not so bad to spend the next hundred miles of barren Nevada highway expounding on the Levinthal paradox.

Next thing he knows, the sunset is turning the sky fire-red, and they’re pulling up to the Utah state line. Al’s dandelion-cloud bedhead pops out from between the curtains to squint through the windshield. The low sun glances off the truck’s polished hood with a molten-gold glare.

Alphonse, voice sleep-thick, says “Are we there yet?” and grins ear-to-ear when Ed punches him on the shoulder.

Home feels closer than ever.

*

The Salt Lake City Intermodal Hub rises out of an open expanse of pavement like a neo-modernist Tower of Babel, a monument to the hubris of mass transit. Lights shimmer in its mirrored, curved facade, an inviting oasis in the heat haze that persists even after nightfall.

Oasis indeed—a blessed shock of air-conditioning hits Ed full-force the moment he drags himself through the doors. After a night sleeping rough and a day on the road, his restful night at the motel is a distant memory.

The twinge in his thigh around his prosthetic leg has become a persistent throb, and a twin pain in his right shoulder has joined it. The hem of his binder digs into his ribs, chafing rough enough to break skin. They stopped at a drive-in for dinner, and the combination of fried chicken and an hour of stopping-and-starting in freeway traffic has left Ed’s stomach to pay the price.

Still, he’s in better spirits than he has been in a while. Their dead-end adventure in California had thrown him into a sulk that verged on hopelessness. They narrowly dodged an arrest for disturbing the peace in Lior, and all for nothing.

Worse than his own demoralization was watching Al retreat still further into himself. The kid has a special talent at seeming okay. If he thinks someone might catch him relenting to grief, he just turns up his smile a few extra watts. But Ed’s known him long enough not to fall for it.  
  
Al’s not the boy he used to be any more than Ed is. They were both changed that night -- Ed just has the injuries to show for it. But when Ed woke up in a hospital bed, Al woke up with a gap in his memory. Once he compared it to a page being torn out: he can feel the frayed edges, knows something’s missing, but he doesn’t know why it was important enough to destroy.

Ever since then, there’s been a wall between Alphonse and the world. Not the kind of wall that makes someone uncaring or indifferent, just distant. Or sometimes Ed thinks of it as a kind of suit of armor, but tight as a second skin. Sure, it protects him, but armor you can’t take off is too much like a cage.

Al’s chatting to Armstrong about whatever it is two upstanding citizens talk about. The price of milk or the demise of the postal service. Ed sees the line of tension across Al’s broad shoulders, how his eyes squint a little like he’s fighting against a fog. But this is about as relaxed as Al ever gets.

“Watch my bag. I’m gonna take a piss.”

The men’s restroom is blessedly empty, and Ed takes his time looking himself over in the mirror.

He doesn’t usually like to spend a long time in front of mirrors. Two years of hormones have significantly improved his self-image, but the problem is that he reminds himself more and more of that picture of Hohenheim. The only one that made it out of the fire. Al keeps it tucked away in their closet at Pinako’s, under the box with their old taekwondo uniforms and Ed’s penny board from when he thought he was a skater in middle school. He probably thinks Ed doesn’t know it’s there. There are a lot of things he thinks Ed hasn’t noticed.

The buzzing fluorescent lights do nothing for Ed’s complexion, but he’s got a nice tan going on from all those hours in the sun. His hair is greasy at the roots and bone-dry at the ends, but a braid is a very forgiving hairstyle. He flicks it over one shoulder and tilts his head to the side, examining the few hopeful hairs sprouting up in a stubby, crooked line along his jaw, and frowns.

His mind jumps, unbidden, to Winry. Waiting outside the bus depot in North Platte, leaning against her beloved ‘63 Chevy pick-up, that look on her face that says “the things I do for you.” And abruptly, he sees himself through her eyes, or he sees what he believes her eyes will see.

Covered in dust and grime, rank with sweat. Knee and elbow rusty to the point of creaking. Ill-shaven, ill-bred and ill-tempered. A sullen, angry, bitter young man—boy—with sigils scratched on the soles of his boots and a black mark on his permanent record. And he’s _short_.

The worst part is that he knows Winry will touch him. She’ll put her hands all over his arm and leg—but not the other ones. She’ll tell him off and give him a good smack upside the head and laugh in his face, but she won’t say anything about his dirty hair and clothes, how bad he smells, how he’s got no prospects, how he freeloads off her granny. He’ll never know for sure how she really sees him.

Ed turns the faucet all the way to cold and splashes water on his face until the collar of his shirt is soaking.

***  
**

**28 AUGUST**

**A.L.A. left a burner phone with Alphonse. He gave us his number and R.M.’s, but he said not to call unless our lives are in danger. And never to call anyone else. Here’s what I think of that: How would he know ? And who would it hurt ?**

**That’s probably why he gave the damn thing to Al and not me.**

**This bus driver is a piece of work. He’s got this fuck-off big scar on his face and he looks like he’ll bust a vein if anyone so much as whispers, so the bus is pitch black and dead quiet, roaring down the road at speeds a Greyhound definitely isn’t built for. I don’t think anywhere gets darker than the desert.**

**Aaaand now he’s pissed that I’m using a reading light. I swear this guy would tell the moon to fuck off if he  
**

***  
**

Ed wakes up with a dribble of drool on his cheek, his head lolling against Al’s arm. Al is contorted into a pretzel, and somehow sleeping like a stone.

They’ve pulled up to a stop, and a few passengers shuffle off. They mutter timid thanks to the driver, who responds surprisingly graciously with a somber but earnest “Have a blessed day.”

It’s just past dawn and a chatter of birds can be heard when the bus doors swing open. A few voices join them, and one is particularly melodic, so lovely that it almost lulls Ed back into sleep. It makes him think of summer in Resembool: a warm breeze through tall grass, sunlight on peeling paint, buzzing cicadas, motor oil, and—

_Winry._

His eyes fly open. No, it doesn’t just remind him of Winry. That _is_ Winry’s voice.

He tries to twist his head around to see out the window, but Al is blocking his view. So he braces his knee on the arm rest and clambers up to peer over the heads of the passengers behind them, a middle-aged couple who seem determined to ignore him.  
  
It can’t be. Why the hell would Winry be in middle-of-nowhere Utah? But there’s a swinging yellow ponytail, and he can only see half her face—her bangs have grown so long—but of course he’d know her anywhere.

She turns to say something to the figure behind her. Ed strains to get a better look. An oversized hoodie with the sleeves cut off, arms brown and muscular. The scattered crowd shifts, and  Ed gets a glimpse of a pair of prosthetic legs. The stranger throws an arm around Winry’s shoulder. Winry laughs. The stab of jealousy is almost enough to make Ed miss the sound of the bus doors closing.

Ed whips his head around, and the scar-faced driver gives him a stern look in the rearview mirror. “Get back in your seat.”

“Stop,” Ed says, and suddenly his chest hurts and his binder feels too tight and he can’t breathe because _Winry_ , Winry is here and she doesn’t see him and she’s laughing with someone else. “Let me out. I’m getting off here.”

But the bus is already pulling out, and he sees Winry and the stranger lining up to board another bus behind them.

“Winry!” he yells. And again, louder, “ _Winry!_ ”

Al finally jolts awake beside him. “Brother? What’s going on?”

Ed reaches across him and pounds a fist on the window. The driver shouts something, and honks the horn. A taxi cab pulling out behind them honks too. Ed shouts, “Winry! Winry Rockbell!”

Abruptly, the driver goes quiet. Ed holds his breath. Winry boards the bus, the stranger close behind her. She doesn’t hear Ed, doesn’t see him. He sinks down in his seat. His throat is sore.

He doesn’t say anything for the next hundred miles.

*

**29 AUGUST**

**Something’s not right here.**

**First of all, Winry has no reason to go to rural Utah. She doesn’t have family here. She never told me about any Mormon buddies she’d like to visit.**

**And if she** **_did_ ** **, she sure as hell wouldn’t take a Greyhound. She’d never leave her car. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her spend more than a day away from that thing, even before she could drive.**

**Who the hell was that stranger with her? The legs aren’t Pinako’s work, and it doesn’t look like Winry did any mods on them, either. She never mentioned an out-of-town friend with prosthetics.**

**Yeah, something’s definitely not right.  
**

*

“I’m telling you, she’s been kidnapped.”

Al takes another bite of his egg salad sandwich, apparently unbothered. “Didn’t you say she was laughing?”

“Yeah. Stockholm syndrome.”

They’re at a fast food joint somewhere in western Wyoming, folded into vinyl-upholstered benches on either side of a garish checkerboard table. Ed picks at his burger listlessly.

“Hey Al, lemme see that phone.”

Alphonse eyes him over his milkshake. “How come?”

“No reason.”

“You’re not gonna call Pinako, are you?”

“Duh,” Ed says. “Look, Al, there’s no point going all the way back to Resembool if—”

It takes him a second to realize his mistake. Al’s ears are already turning pink, a sure sign of one of his rare explosions.

“No point?” he fumes. “No _point?_ So everything you said about going home, how we might find a clue we missed before, something that would help me get my memories back —that was all a lie? You just wanted to see Winry, didn’t you?”

“I need her to look at my leg,” Ed protests, even though guilt is already settling itself into his stomach.

“Pinako can do that.”

“Pinako’s retired,” Ed says, but his heart’s not really in it. “Yeah, I wanna see her. But the rest wasn’t a lie. I really thought it might be time to go home. But ever since we ran into Mustang, I’ve felt like there’s something we’re overlooking. And I don’t think we’ll find it in Resembool.”

After a long pause, during which Ed mentally catalogues all the apologies and gratitude he owes his brother, Al reaches into his pocket and hands over the phone. “I’m going outside for a minute. Stretch my legs.”

Edward takes this to mean, “If you call someone you’re not supposed to call, none will be the wiser.”

So as soon as his brother is a safe distance away, doing high-kicks in the parking lot, Ed flips the phone open and starts dialing. He’s halfway through punching in Pinako’s home number when the phone buzzes in his hand.

The caller ID on the tiny screen just says “Flame.”

Ed can only think of one person who’s that big a loser.

*

“The driver told me we’re heading out in ten,” Al says, when he slides back into the booth. “He looks scary, but he’s a pretty nice guy.”

“Yeah,” Edward says, not really listening. “Listen, Al. Change of plans.”

Al’s hand freezes in mid-air, about to steal a french fry off Ed’s tray. His eyes narrow. “Because of Winry?”

“This has nothing to do with Winry,” Ed huffs. Except for him, it kinda does—anything that gets his mind off what he saw at the station is a blessing right now. He might’ve told Mustang to piss off, if he wasn’t looking for a reason not to go back to Resembool. Al doesn’t need to know that.

“Mustang called.” Ed lowers his voice. Alphonse quits glaring, but he still looks far from pleased. “Get this: he’s sending us to Dublith.”

That gets a reaction. Al leans forward, eyes bright. “We’ll get to see Teacher!” Then his face falls. “She’s gonna be pretty mad at us, huh?”

Ed grimaces. “Furious.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh word one of the romantic interests finally appears for 0.02 seconds? time to add slow burn to the tags lol 
> 
> yes, the bus driver is scar, but sadly he won't play a big part in this fic, much as i wish i could shoehorn him in. stay tuned for the spinoff where scar is a notorious transcontinental greyhound driver and miles is a gas station attendant in alaska ....... (jk. i think)
> 
> we meet greed next get hype


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cw for a brief allusion to the possibility of transphobic violence

**30 AUGUST**

**It’s a long goddamn way to Tennessee.**

**Our chauffeur isn’t exactly making the hours fly by, either. She’s with the feds too. In fact, I’m pretty sure she’s the same blonde broad who came to Resembool. The one Winry wouldn’t shut up about.**

**She hasn’t said a word about it though. No complaints here although I do wish she’d say a word about** **_something_ ** **. Won’t make small talk, won’t put on the radio, just keeps her eyes fixed on the road like she’s trying to melt it with her mind. But I’m pretty sure she’s not an alchemist.**

**All we know is she’s a cop and she has a whole ass fucking gun locker in the back of her van. And R.M. trusts her. Which means we have to trust her, I guess. For now.**

*

Hawkeye pulls up in the parking lot less than an hour after Ed gets Mustang’s call. Either she just happened to be in the rural Wyoming neighborhood or Mustang had her tailing them. But apparently they’re in a big rush. It’s a solid twenty hour drive to Dublith, and she tells them they’re doing it in one day.

Really, Ed has no complaints. He’s not the one volunteering for nine straight hours of night driving. But he wouldn’t mind sleeping in a bed, and it’s been one full business week since his last real shower.

“You sure you don’t want to stop at a motel, lady?”

“Don’t push it, kid.”

They cross the Nebraska state line around dusk. In the dimming light, the endless plains and flat soybean fields gradually fade into darkness until they seem to be driving on an open road floating in a void, the rising moon following close behind them. Further on, the shadows of corn stalks crowd them on either side; silos stand like giants towering over the low landscape.

When they hit the same longitude as Resembool, Ed feels it in his gut. He knows Al does too. It’s something in the air. Al rolls his window down and breathes it in. Ed rolls his down too, and a cross breeze cuts through the car. Hawkeye gives them a look, but says nothing. At some point they from the semi-arid wastes of the west into a bubble of humidity. The air is so damp it almost leaves drops on Ed’s skin, and he can smell ozone. He can hear the buzz of crickets on all sides, even above the rumble of the car.

Al reaches a hand back and squeezes Ed’s shoulder, just above his prosthetic.

“We’ll be back soon,” Ed mumbles, like he’s not the one being comforted.

*

Ed falls asleep while he can still hear crickets. When he wakes up, his window is rolled up again, and in the morning sun the van is hot as a greenhouse.

He smacks his lips and fumbles for his water bottle in the sack at his feet. It’s empty. They’re parked outside a gas station. Ed scans the lot and soon finds Al, predictably doing his calisthenics routine on a tiny plot of stubby grass beside the mini-mart.

Ed does a few lazy stretches of his own on his way to the bathroom, where he fills his water bottle to the brim, gulps it down, then fills it again. He avoids looking at himself for long in the mirror, which at any rate is thankfully too dingy and speckled with grime to provide a clear image. But he takes the opportunity to run his hair under the tap, re-braid it, and hastily scrub his armpits with a dollop of pearlescent pink soap from the dispenser.

By the time he shoulders open the door, there’s a guy waiting on the other side. He’s about Ed’s age or a little older. He’s got big arms for a teenager, under ... a sleeveless leather vest with a fluffy faux fur collar? He gives Ed a once-over from over his round sunglasses and under his spiky hair, then smirks.

Ed bristles. His first thought is that he’s about to be told he went in the wrong bathroom. Either in fake-polite tones, or with fists. But it’s a single-stall. Can’t be that.

By the time he works it out, the guy’s already slouched past into the bathroom. Ed meanders through the aisles of the mini-mart feeling sort of dazed. He blames it on poor sleep. He pauses by the drink case for a while and considers the cartons of milk. On the one hand, they’re running out of money. On the other hand, it’s his responsibility as an older brother to make sure Al gets his essential vitamins and minerals. But then again, they’re running out of money. He grabs a half-pint.

While the clerk—who is a totally normal balding guy and not some kind of creepy occult entity—rings him up, Ed checks out the rack of tourist postcards. So they made it to Kentucky. He grabs one of the postcards. _Land Between the Lakes._ They must be close to the border, then, somewhere in the region of Paducah. A couple hours in good traffic and they’ll hit Nashville; then if the I-40’s not too packed it’s just another hour to Dublith.

“You gonna buy that?”

“Naw.”

“Then put it down.”

Ed rolls his eyes and fishes out 50 cents for the postcard. He’ll send it to Pinako, maybe. If he has time.

Al has finished his routine and is sitting on the curb by the air pump machines. His eyes are closed, and he doesn’t register Ed when he stops in front of him. He’s either meditating or … not.

“Yo,” Ed says.

Al opens his eyes and smiles, a little thinly. Ed offers the milk. “Drink up.”

“Thanks, brother.”

“You doing okay?”

“Just tired.”

“Alright.” Ed plops down on the curb beside his brother. “Where’s Hawkeye at?”

Al inclines his head in the direction of the van, still parked on the other side of the lot. The back doors are open and Hawkeye’s sitting on the edge with her legs dangling over the tailgate. She’s somehow simultaneously slamming down a huge cup of coffee and talking on the phone.

Ed tugs his journal out of his back pocket and scribbles while Alphonse finishes his milk. He sketches the van, and sort of outlines Hawkeye’s figure, although he’s never been great at drawing people. Some would say he’s not great at drawing anything. But he’s pretty good at drafting -- you gotta be to get a sigil right every time -- so all the parts of the van are at least in the right places; the perspective is decent.

For good measure, he outlines the little copse of short trees behind the van. Fudges the contours a little, so that when he unfocuses his eyes, the whole drawing looks suspiciously like a protection glyph. So maybe he’s a little paranoid. Now that he’s drawn it, he might as well charge it. He’s looking around for an appropriate power source, when he hears a loud rumble and something bulky blocks his light.

It’s a motorcycle. With a guy on it. The guy from the bathroom. Ed squints up at him, but the sun is directly behind his face, so he moves his gaze down. Those are some pretty nice abs, if you like that kind of thing. Ed usually doesn’t.

In addition to that ostentatious vest, the guy’s rocking leather pants tighter than Ed’s own, and those fingerless leather biker gloves—the kind Judd Nelson wears in _The Breakfast Club._ It’s a damn cool outfit.

“Hey, boys.”

“If you wanted to talk to us, you coulda done it _before_ you got on your bike.”

“Then how would I show it off?” The guy grins and runs a hand through his hair, as if he’s pushing it out of his face, but it’s way too short for that to be necessary. He’s got a pronounced accent, which might be partly or entirely affected, but it doesn’t sound like he’s from around here. Somewhere further northeast. Philadelphia maybe, or Baltimore. Ed has never been that far east, but he’s seen every episode of _The Wire_.

“You’re not my type.”

“What makes you think I’m looking at you?” The guy casts a glance at Al. Ed grits his teeth. “Just pulling your leg. You boys headed down to Nashville?”

“Dublith,” Al says, before Ed can caution him not to talk to strangers. Sociable to a fault.

“What a coincidence.” He tugs something out of the pocket of his vest and hands it to Alphonse. “That’s my hang-out.”

Ed leans over Al’s arm to look. It’s a card for what must be a bar, with a cheesy drawing of a demon in the style of a traditional tattoo, and the words _Devil’s Nest_. Al turns it over and there’s an address in a Dublith neighborhood that was once unsavory and has rapidly gentrified over the last five years.

Thankfully this is an easy enough invitation to turn down. “Sorry, we’re minors.”

“Another coincidence,” the guy says. “Me too. Don’t worry, it’s an all ages kinda joint. We put up punk shows and all that. You’ll like it, trust me.”

Ed grimaces. This guy has no idea what he likes, and it’s only by sheer luck that he would land on one of Ed’s top five favorite things. He’s about to tell the biker to fuck off once and for all, when he gets an idea. “Hey, can I check out your bike?”

“Sure thing, sweet cheeks.”

Ed gives his brother a look that he hopes says, _Distract him with small talk while I do weird stuff with his motorcycle._ Al either picks up on it or he just follows his country boy instincts. Either way, he’s soon chatting cheerily with the biker. Ed tunes out their small talk and circles the bike, pretending to take interest in various details.

He lays his left palm on the rear fender. It’s warm, but not too hot. The engine’s still rumbling low. He closes his eyes and he can feel its power moving up his arm and thrumming in his chest. That’ll do fine.

Alphonse is saying something about the Curtises. That’s definitely too much personal information, but if it keeps Biker Boy distracted, fine. Ed surreptitiously opens his journal to the sketch of the van and slaps the drawing directly against the fender. He presses it there with one palm, the way you press down the spatula on a grilled cheese.

People charge their sigils in various ways. Some chant incantations. Others apply various body fluids. Edward Elric doesn’t hold by any of that woo-woo shit. He’s a scientist. He likes good honest raw energy. The kind you can feel. A geyser, a volcano or a convenient earthquake are his ideal sources, but an engine does the trick in a pinch.

When he feels a cool buzzing radiating from the journal, and the sensation of saltwater flowing up his fingers, he hastily returns it to his pocket and gives Al a thumbs up. _Wrap it up and send this loser on his way._

“It was nice meeting you, uh …”

“Greed.”

“Alphonse.” They fist bump.

“Seriously? That’s your name?” Ed can’t help but say.

“I think Alphonse is a great name.”

“I was talking about yours, dickhead.”

“That’s what they call me.”

“In your dreams.”

“Greed” flashes that unsettling grin again. His teeth look unusually sharp. “It suits me pretty good. You’ll see.” He slams a helmet over his spikey hair and gives Al a nod. “Come by the Devil’s Nest any time.”

He glances over his shoulder at Edward one more time before he revs his engine. “Hope you got what you needed, alchemist.” Then the engine roars and he’s gone.

Ed’s mouth goes dry. He stands frozen for a moment before he remembers himself and scrambles to pull his journal out of his pocket; throws it on the ground and lets it fall open to the page in question.

When he unfocuses his eyes the sigil glows a little, like it should when it’s freshly charged. Its aura is a muted sea-green, the right color for this type of protection glyph. When he closes his eyes and inhales, it has the molasses odor that a propane-charged sigil should. He runs the gloved fingertips of his prosthetic gingerly over the page, and feels that same not-quite-pleasant saltwater tingle splash around the socket of his shoulder. Nothing seems to be amiss.

He turns to Al. “It looks fine to you, right?”

Al runs through the same process: stare, sniff, scratch. He shrugs. “Looks good, brother.”

Ed turns, pointlessly, to the road and squints at the horizon. Greed and his bike are long gone. He should’ve got a better look at the guy. Was he an alchemist himself? Not likely. Ed can usually spot another alchemist a mile off. But what if …

No way. Ed’s sigil proves it. It has none of the malefic energy of the ouroboros glyph in Youswell. If Greed were bad news in the way that swamp-thing-lookin’ cashier was bad news, his bike would’ve picked up on his vibes and transferred some of them to Ed’s journal. It looks like Greed is only bad news of the mundane human kind.

Ed takes a long breath and lets his shoulders drop. Plenty people know about alchemy who don’t practice it. And maybe Ed wasn’t as subtle as he thought.

Better be careful from here on out, though. He shoves his journal in his back pocket and gives it a pat. This is a good day to have a freshly-charged protection sigil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much of this story is based on Absolutely True Events. that's how i charge sigils too. mine don't smell like anything though because magic is fake or something :-/


End file.
